A Tall, Dark Stranger
by Yuval25
Summary: The person at the bar is wearing a leather jacket, and he smirks in a devil-may-care way that makes his green eyes sparkle. He is gorgeous. And very familiar. "I bet I can get him to kiss me in less than ten seconds," Sam says, feeling reckless, humming with feeling so alive. "Oh, you're on." WARNINGS: Wincest (kissing, mentions of underage). Inappropriate use of fruit.


_A/N - So I was sitting with my laptop, reading something totally unrelated and suddenly I though, hey, Stanford Sam kissing Dean in a bar in front of his friends sounds pretty good. Yeah, I think I'll get me some of that :)_

 **A Tall, Dark Stranger**

Sam doesn't know why he thought it would be a good idea to let Jess drag him to the Halloween party some guy she knows is hosting at his uncle's bar. Especially since she has claimed it is way overdue that he got laid. Sam sort of agrees with her, since it _has_ been over a year and, well, they're getting blue. The problem is, there is only one person Sam wants to do that with, and that person is not here. That person would not be caught dead in this quivering mass of bodies rubbing against each other dressed in what they believe to be the stuff of nightmares. Sam has lived nightmares ever since he was six months old, and the sexy-cop/sexy-nurse/sexy-fucking-badger isn't it. It doesn't even come close. Even the masks, the plastic drenched in fake, red paint that is supposed to look like blood but Sam knows from experience that the shape and colour of it is so completely, utterly wrong, doesn't make Sam so much as shudder. Jess, though, has been pulling disgusted, slightly terrified expressions all night.

"Come on, Sam! What about her?"

"Not my type," he murmurs, taking another sip through the straw. It's some cocktail, he knows that much, and red as the fake-blood on the masks.

"You didn't even look at her," Jess complains, shooting him a disgruntled look.

"I don't have to," he answers, because Jess is smart enough to know what he means and he loves her for it.

She only hesitates a little bit before scanning the room once more, her eyes stopping somewhere near where Sam remembers the bar to be.

"Well, what about him?" she asks, pointing discretely with her thumb and raising an eyebrow in the direction of the candidate, a suggestive smirk on her face that turns into a full-blown grin in response to what Sam guesses to be the stranger's answering, considering look.

Sam sighs, but looks anyway. At worst, he can just tell her that he's not into guys, either.

Only the person at the bar is wearing a leather jacket, and his blond hair is gelled preciously as he quirks a single eyebrow and smirks in a devil-may-care way that makes his green eyes sparkle and the dusted stubble at his jaw and visible-even-in-the-dim-light-of-the-bar freckles across his nose and cheeks and fucking everywhere that much more prominent. He is fucking gorgeous. And very familiar.

"You should go talk to him," Jess says beside him, and when Sam manages to tear his eyes away from the man he can see she is practically buzzing with excitement.

"I bet five bucks that Sam will get kicked in the nuts for propositioning this guy. He flirted with Becky earlier. He's straight. And scary," Brady pipes in from Sam's other side where he sits, slouched, sloshing the remains of his beer in the bucket-sized glass.

"But hot scary," Becky sighs dreamily, chin resting on her palms and elbows dangerously close to her fourth and fifth tequila shots, spaced half a meter apart at shoulder width to both her sides. "Like, in a _good_ way. Exciting scary, mysterious…"

"Well, I don't like my chances with that guy in a dark alley, so…" Brady shoots back.

Sam rolls his eyes, though he has to admit that Brady's apprehension is probably entirely justified, even if his roommate can't see the hint of a gun shifting the leather jacket from this distance like Sam's eyes have been trained to recognize since he was six years old.

"I bet _ten_ bucks that he'll make Sam blush so hard he'll faint," Jess contributes, wedging her arm under Sam's in a parody of the way one would escort a lady to a dance. She tugs until he relents and bends down enough for her to whisper-shout in his ear, "Won't you, babes? I've got my money set on this. Come on, momma needs a new Babyliss."

Sam laughs, eyes shooting back to the bar where the man is now watching Sam's group of friends openly, and Sam can see that his hand is curled around a glass of something pink, ice cubes catching the flimsy light of the bar and a cherry swimming leisurely between them, blood red even through the thick glass.

"I bet I can get him to kiss me in less than ten seconds," Sam says, feeling reckless, humming with feeling so alive.

"Oh, you're on," Jess slides her arm out from under his and manages to shake his opposite hand without spilling any of the drinks on the table.

"Dark alley, that's all I'm saying," Brady raises his hands in surrender, but there's a smile on his face and he looks as eager as Jess to watch Sam's downfall and possibly capture it on camera and upload it to Youtube.

Sam bites back his smile, fondness for his crazy friends spreading over him warmly.

He abandons the straw and downs the half-full glass in one huge swallow, wincing at the burn in his throat but braving through the aftertaste like a pro. He puts his glass down with a resolute clank and stands up, the chair scraping slightly across the dingy bar floor behind him.

Ignoring the whistles and whoops from his table, he marches unbothered through the crowd of dancing zombies/fairies/superheroes/sexy-somethings towards the bar.

He looks over his shoulder at his friends to see them watching with various degrees of anticipation as he makes his way towards the man, whose eyes hold a heat Sam knows all too well and a spark of amusement that makes Sam's own feeling of anticipation soar high.

Finally reaching the bar, he leans his way into a seat on one of the high chairs and casually places one forearm on the doubtlessly sticky countertop, facing the man with an open body language and a hint of a suggestion in his eyes.

Without a word, he reaches over with his other hand and plucks the cherry from the man's glass by the stem, keeping his gaze fixed on the man's deep green eyes as he brings the cherry to his own lips and curls them around the lower half of it, biting into the juicy fruit with an inappropriate sucking sound that admittedly does make his cheeks feel rather warm. He boldly lets a drop of the juice gather at the center of his lower lip and tremble as it hangs on to his skin, seconds from falling onto his lap.

His knowing eyes take in the way the man's whole posture goes rigid, how those green eyes widen and focus uncontrollably on Sam's juice-dripping lower lip.

Just as the drop of sweet cherry juice is about to detach and plunder down to the cloth of Sam's ordinary blue jeans, a flash fast movement blurs in front of him and the drop is caught by a warm, wet, unbearably soft mouth. An insistent tongue prods at Sam's lower lip and when the taste of the cherry is gone, demands access to Sam's whole mouth. Sam lets out a shocked laugh and obliges, spacing his lips apart and letting the hot, slick tongue in, caressing the rough taste buds with his own tongue and leaning in further, closer, the sleeve of his shirt dragging against the bar counter as his other wrist gets caught in a vice-like grip that near crushes his bone. The half-eaten cherry drops from rapidly-numbing fingers to the floor and Sam hopes neither of them steps on it. A pair of teeth bites his lower lip and a sharp pain Sam has come to associate with skin breaking rips through him. Sam groans softly, but doesn't pull back. It has been, after all, well over a year and he has missed this.

Sighing, he grabs onto the warm leather jacket with the hand currently not held captive and uses it to pull the man closer. The cherry trick has never failed Sam before, and it seems to Sam that it never will. It is, after all, the only reason Dean ever buys that horrid drink. To watch Sam bite down on a fleshy piece of fruit and catch the liquid sweetness off Sam's mouth with his tongue afterwards. It had started as a game sixteen year old Dean had roped Sam into playing one night when there had been a storm knocking trees down outside and their Dad had been four states away. The alcohol Dean had managed to sneak past the gas station cashier had done a great deal to loosen Dean's inhibitions and blur his good sense and moral values, and Sam had never been happier than he had been sitting cross legged on that motel bed, letting Dean lick the drops of cherry off his lips as the older boy mirrored his position in front of him and praised the then-twelve-years-old Sam with a raspy, sensuous voice until Sam was blushing halfway to fainting, much like Jess bet would happen now.

Dean slows down the kisses with a sigh of regret, touching his mouth to Sam's delicately and dragging his lips against the bruised, swollen skin of Sam's lips, causing them to tingle and ache and feel right as they should and exactly how Sam likes them. Sam lets out a sigh of his own as they part, unable to resist darting back for one quick, sweet peck at the corner of Dean's mouth just to feel his lips tingle again at the contact.

Dean smiles and his eyes look dazed. The tension is gone from his shoulders and the fingers circling Sam's wrist have gone slack and limp. Sam tugs his wrist out of Dean's grasp and runs the fingers of that hand across Dean's eyebrows and cheeks, reveling in how Dean's eyelids flutter shut as Sam traces over his stupidly feminine eyelashes, breath catching as Sam taps gently against the abused mouth, the full lips curving into a soft smile as they give under Sam's rough fingertips.

"Your predictability just won us fifteen bucks," he informs his brother softly.

Sharp green eyes snap open and Sam feels mesmerized by their depth, captivated by their intensity. He swallows down a gasp at the warm thrill that shoots down his spine at the look in those eyes. Dean looks like he would like to eat Sam whole. Either that or throw him to the floor and beat the ever-living shit out of him. Sam thinks it's a little fucked up that he feels like he would be okay with either option, as long as it gets Dean to touch him.

"I thought the blond chick's your girlfriend," Dean states with a question in his voice.

Sam throws a look at the table, positioned non-strategically smack in the middle of the room, and takes in Jess's slack jaw and bulging eyes, Brady's frantic, flurried attempts to wipe his shirt where it got spattered by Jess's drink while simultaneously gaping in open shock at Sam and Dean's little spectacle, and Becky, who sits with her hands folded across her skeleton-costumed chest, a smug, half-repressed squint to her eyes and a bout of laugher Sam can hear all the way to where he sits, her deep, cackling barks of mirth loud even over the deep basses and ear-splitting overlapping pop songs remix rattling the speakers on various corners of the bar.

He settles for a shrug and a self-assured smirk at the astonished group before turning back to his brother, a teasing edge to his smile that provokes Dean's own sharp gaze to become just as excited, a challenge that Sam is all too happy to meet. Sam knows that look, that promise that he will be so sore come morning that he won't be able to lift a foot out of bed without the aid of painkillers, that he will spend the next week feeling phantom slick dripping out of him and that he will be squirming so hard in his Ethics in Society: Culture class, which he shares with Jess, that he will probably give her laughter material for the next semester, if not the next year.

Sam also knows that he doesn't care, and that if he managed to survive John's awfully awkward attempt at giving 'The Talk' after finding a hickey on Sam's neck and obliviously presuming Sam had found himself a girlfriend, while Dean nodded solemnly along in agreement at every word and visibly tried not to burst out laughing or spontaneously catch on fire curtesy of the hell they are both sprinting towards with each inappropriate kiss or less-than-innocent touch, then a semester – or a year – of good-natured, Jess-style teasing and a few days of extreme discomfort would be next to nothing.

"We have an open relationship," Sam snarks in reply to Dean's query, waiting for the inevitable flare of his big brother's nostrils and that pushed-over-the-edge animalistic possessive eruption of dominative lust that always leaves Sam between little-brother-smugness that he has managed to aggravate Dean and honest-to-god fear of the predatory gleam in Dean's eyes.

Dean's face twists into a furious snarl and he growls, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and making the hair on the back of Sam's neck stand at attention even as his whole body feels suddenly too hot and the pressure in his groin increases.

Without further comment, Dean snatches Sam's wrist back and throws some ones on the counter, sliding off the bar seat and crushing the half-eaten cherry with his boot. Pulling Sam along, he starts walking with long, quick strides towards the exit. Sam lets himself be dragged across the room, shooting his friends a million-dollar grin as he passes them, earning another round of lewd wolf-whistles and cheering.

 _Yep_ , he thinks as Dean nearly knocks the door of the bar down with his shoulder, hand still captured in Dean's strong, warm grip and feeling more alive and grounded and _safer_ than he has since last August, _nailed it._


End file.
